


She Walks in Beauty

by Spymaster13



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poetry, Post-Episode: s12e08 The Haunting of Villa Diodati, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Prostitute, Regency Romance, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spymaster13/pseuds/Spymaster13
Summary: The Master often checks up on the Doctor's adventures in history. But when he comes across a particular poem written by Lord Byron, he goes to track down the poet and assert his true dominance.
Relationships: George Gordon Byron | Lord Byron/Thirteenth Doctor, Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	She Walks in Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleMissMissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissMissy/gifts).



~She Walks in Beauty~  
'The waves were dead; the tides in their grave,  
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before,   
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,   
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need  
Of aid from them- She was the Universe.   
~Darkness, Lord Byron (George Gordon)  
......  
The words were intensely familiar to him as his eyes scanned the pages of history books. Poetry had a romantic touch, he'd always thought, a nice roll off the tongue that would entice any lover, whether they be in denial or simply too blind to see the beauty standing before them. He was a stickler for collecting poems and long soliloquies, his voice laced like chocolate as the verses spilled from his tongue in front of the crackling log fire. He'd browsed through almost every book he'd hoarded in the TARDIS library, sensing that she was getting cross with him ignoring her for so long.   
But she could wait, surely. There was something he'd never noticed before in this particular poem. It was quite frank, wasn't it, he thought upon reflection, that Lord Byron described someone, a certain 'she' as 'The Universe.' Perhaps the poem was not about some distant, horrid future he had imagined, but perhaps it was an adventure of his own. He was after all, a world traveller and had many a skeleton or two in his chamber.   
The Master slammed the dusty old book shut and went back to scanning his shelves, looking through unkept piles of poems dating back to the middle ages. Another, there had to be another with a similar link. His fingers were starting to peel with bruised paper cuts as he dove through the volumes and old novels. Ah, yes. Here's what he was looking for. 

*She walks in Beauty.* How quaint. 

'She walks in beauty, like the night.   
Of cloudless climbs and starry skies.   
And all that's best of dark and bright  
Met aspect in her eyes.' 

His anger, his inner rage and built up fury started to grow more and more into an outrage as he read further down. He couldn't believe he hadn't spotted it before. He'd always taken kindly to Lord Byron's words in the time he spent on Earth waiting for his revenge to pan out against the Doctor. Now-

'The smiles that win, the tints that glow.  
But tell of days in goodness spent.  
A mind at peace with all below,   
A heart whose love is innocent.' 

Innocent indeed, Doctor. He spat on the library floor as he slammed the book shut, having half a mind to throw the book into the soft flickering flames of the fireplace, watching the wrinkled old pages expire as they rotted to ash. The satisfying image in his mind would have to do for now, the Master treasured old books, even if he despised their writers. And now, it seemed, he had quite a good reason to condone this one. Lord Byron. George Gordon. Now where, just where had the Doctor come across this regency Jane Austen bastard? He couldn't picture the Doctor in one of those frilly dresses that the women galavanted about in during the time period. All lace and ruffles, corsets yanking the chest until they couldn't breathe. But a suit- much like the one she wore when they infiltrated Barton's Villa, that was something much more her style. Perhaps *Lord Byron* had taken a fancy to her looks in a button down shirt, he knew she liked that raincoat of hers too much to part with it- perhaps she added curls to her bottle blonde hair? 

His nails were digging into his skin, how had the Doctor managed to entice yet another *human* to fall for her, another insignificant speck in the grander scheme of things. Hadn't he been gentle, careful, meticulous- in crafting O's personality? Hadn't he shaped him exactly to her liking, everything he remembered that she had liked in, well, him. Koschei Oakdown. A thousand lifetimes ago. Tracing someone's path through history wasn't a difficult thing, especially if that person made as much noise as the Doctor. Cracks in time, turning points of the universe. Tipping points where the outcome could have gone one way or the other, always there. Always lording over the choice, always making it hers. 

There. There she was. And there- was the Lone Cyberman. No- something was off. This was the Lone Cyberman *before* it had taken the cyberium in an attempt to become god. And like always, there was a choice. A choice with another horrid, yet oddly striking and -very interesting- outcome. Lake Geneva, 1816. *The Doctor had taken the cyberium into her own mind.* It had been a little too familiar with the time lord body when the Master had snatched it on Gallifrey. Perhaps it liked her form better than it did his. Perhaps it would care for a chance to jump in the vessel all over again. A chance to not give the lone cyberman what it wanted. It was a curious little life form, the cyberium. Not quite atoms but not quite metal either. Always sloshing and jangling around in his mind, twisting in his veins. Feeding him strategy, inviting conflict, yearning for destruction. 

Perhaps he could give it a newer, more permanent home. The telltale grin spread across the Master's face as his hands flew delicately over the TARDIS controls, hitting intricately designed levers and switches with great care. He'd changed into a dark purple gentleman's coat and added a slick black bowtie. Ah- one more thing. Perception filter. Damn this regeneration, damn it's skin- but he remembered people in Lord Byron's era were no less friendly than Germans in the 1940s. Indeed, had he gone with a natural look, he would have been seen as a lowy servant- second class to the great minded literature geniuses he planned to visit. 

The Master had a couple of tools at hand, a dangerous man about to do a dangerous job. A carefully cut sheet of thin fabric, dark grey in color. A handy rotoscope projector, and of course, a golden sword he had stolen off a pirate captain after most disgracefully seducing his wife. The sword was situated around his waist in a rather awkward belt swing and kept knocking against the projector, causing an awfully loud racket as his TARDIS landed in the Villa Diodati. The Master made sure it was a cloudless, sunny day when the poets would be out in the sun, taking in the wonders of nature and making prophetic claims before getting to work. He rolled up his sleeves, taping the length of the grand staircase with the fabric, the color he had chosen quite nicely blending in with the walls. And then- the projector was set at the top of the stairs, lying just out of view behind a telepathic circuit. Now, he waited. 

It was another dark and stormy night, hardly surprising as the summer of 1816 passed barely a night without any rain. He waited until the thunder shook the house before a sinister little voice rang through the grand hall. 'Though Grief and Passion there rebel; I know we only loved in vain!' A chilling little girl's voice, quite similar to the Doctor's northern accent. But just a bit- different. As though it were her as a child. He was sick and he knew it. But he loved his twisted little bit of fun. Soon enough, Lord Byron himself soon clattered down the staircase, searching for the invisible demon. 

"Who goes there in the night? Tired spirit, show yourself!" 

A shadow flickered cross the wall. Lord Byron's hand reaching for his own sword when the shadow extended and grew fangs in another flash of lightning. Quite handsome, this one. He could see why the Doctor might possibly have been attracted- and he *hated* it. Another thousand soul her face had loved. Another thousand that wasn't *him.* 'Remember me, oh- pass not my grave! Without one thought whose relics there recline.' 

"You have stolen my words, spirit, I know not how," Lord Byron shouted, drawing his sword. "I beg of you, come to the light!" 

Blood. Lord Byron gave a strangled yell as a gush of blood poured down from the wall, as though the fabric of the building were horribly wounded. The red liquid flowed down the staircase, the lightning illuminating the stained, rusty wood.   
*Good thing he'd kept the bodies.*   
A prerecorded crackling record scratched, the Master's voice flowing out as he hid in the shadows, casting his faint outline across the wall. 'I challenge thee to a duel. A duel of words and of strength.'

"Of course in the mind of any writer of sense, words *are* the best strength," Lord Byron replied, his tongue quick of wit. 

"Then prove thyself," the Master spoke at last, coming into the light of the next lighting illumination. "I would challenge you to a battle of wits, yet I see you are unarmed. Or is that the wrong writer?" 

"We all profit off each others words in the end, don't we?" Lord Byron sighed, as though bored. "If you do so desire a duel, make it quick. You've stolen me from quite a vivacious night." 

"I dread to think," the Master rolled his eyes. "Come then, if your words prove so little. We duel in the cellar." 

"If one challenges to a duel, it is hardly suitable to change the location," said Lord Byron, yanking his sword from his belt with a loud screech.

The blood trickled down the grand staircase as the Master descended from the heavens. He knew every trick in the book about sword fighting. Enjoying the tall and intimidating visage this body possessed, he stared down at Lord Byron, lifting his sword to the tiny little human's neck- cracked in a split second if perhaps he moved his blade just a bit left- the perfect vein to cut off blood flow to the heart. The Master took care not to make skin contact with his sword, a soft warning of what he was capable of.

"I see you are no stranger to the maims of the sword," Lord Byron swallowed his fear. "I daresay it does more harm than words."

"If one knows how to use both, I've found the former to be quite ample," the Master smirked, pacing around the man who was desperately trying to keep his composure. "If I've got my timelines right, you've taken a fancy to quite a beautiful woman. Nudged in a tiny reference to a famous poem of yours. She was the universe. How quaint. How vile." 

"Vile?" Lord Byron's eyebrow twitched, confirming indeed to the Master that he had known her. "She was the most remarkable woman I've ever laid eyes on. Not of this realm. Of course, it was some time ago now." 

"*Some* time?" the Master tilted his head, a very curious expression crossing his face. "You shared a dance, did you not? A battle of wits, perhaps. One would almost think you seduced her."

"Alas, she never spared the poet a second glance," said Lord Byron, which the Master very much refused to believe. "No matter what method of persuasion." 

"Do you know who her favorite poet was, when she was learning old Earth poems at the academy?" the Master paced around him, standing about a foot away, Lord Byron's shadow flickering briefly in the light of the projector. "Always, time and time again, she came back to Lord Byron. Always with her nose in one of your poems, imagining the wit, the dashing, handsome rouge. We all know who you are of course. You've made quite an impression on history. But it's hardly you that matters now. I suggest you banish all thought of her. A goddess does not fancy mortals." 

"No, it seems you have learned that lesson quite well," Lord Byron said, a faint twinkle in his eye that the Master wanted stab with the tiny point of his sword. "You say I do not matter, yet your own words contradict. I am pleased that my writings are not lost to the tide of time. For she is far greater than we can imagine." 

The Master made the first attack, swinging his sword over his head, which Lord Byron saw coming and moved to block. The Master's strength and agility gave him an advantage, but Lord Byron was clearly just as learned as he. He twisted the sword in moves the Master hadn't imagined and made mental notes to use next time he found himself in a duel. Over the head, under the arm, block, left twist, around the knee, swiped under his feet, the Master matched each move with blocks and attacks of his own. The pair matched wits as they started moving down the stairs, the Master gaining the upper hand as his blade sliced through the air with harsh blows. As Lord Byron crumpled at the end of the stairs, the Master grinned in victory, stepping over to lift the poet's chin with his boot. A smirk formed across his face at the humiliation in his eyes.

"Next time you see the Doctor," the Master ordered. "You do your best to leave her alone. As we both are aware now, she despises unwanted attention. And really, if you're so vain to pursue her in the midst of saving your life, I hardly think you're worth anything." 

The Master lifted his boot only when he had gotten a nod of agreement from Lord Byron, hearing him grunt and pant for breath as he stood up, leaning on the handle of his sword. But in quite the unexpected move, the Master screeched as Lord Byron dove forward and sliced the sword across his cheek. Lord Byron chuckled at the Master's reaction as a thin line of blood dripped from his cheekbone, hardly deep, but a warning nonetheless. 

"That," said Lord Byron. "Is for challenging the Master of his own home. Hardly suitable standards in the land of her Majesty the Queen. Come, you wanted to see the cellar. Perhaps dear Percy Shelly would care for another soul in our vivacious times." 

Percy Shelly indeed? Oh, his plan just kept getting better and better. The Master swallowed his pride and gave half a bow, as though to say 'after you.' Lord Byron's smirk never wavered as he led the Master down the dank and dark staircase that led to the cellar. The candlelight flickered in the wind, Lord Byron disappearing into the shadows of the flickering flames. A giggle and screech caused the Master to roll his eyes. Jesus Christ. He lifted his lantern to see Percy Shelly in the middle of three, well, as Lord Byron put it, vivaciously dressed prostitutes, doubled up in lace and ribbon. He forced an awkward grin on his face as he descended the staircase and made his way to Percy Shelly.

"I must tell you, I cannot stay long," the Master tried, only to be pulled aside by a blonde in a split second. 

Her hands were on his chest quicker than he could keep up with, ravishing his suit and tie, ruffling his long locks around his head. Lord Byron had no trouble situating himself with the other two girls, leaving Percy Shelly to wander over to the Master. He relished in Percy's disposition, detangling himself from the blonde who was now pressing gentle kisses across his collarbone.

"Mr. Shelly, I wonder if you would lend a hand," he tried very much to hide the snicker in his voice.

As Percy Shelly situated himself, the Master ran a gentle hand down his arm, gripping his hand very suddenly as his other hand found its way to Percy's temple. His eyes closed, connecting with the poet's mind as he gave a soft grunt of pain. The Master could hear all of Percy Shelly's thoughts, all his musings about the attractive women he was actively shagging, then deeper still his utter love for his wife and his wonder of the universe and nature. Spoken like a true 18th century gentleman, the Master scoffed. He felt around in his own mind until his little tendrils of thought reached the cyberium, pulling the sloshing of metallic structure back into the veins of his arm, the silver liquid coursing through his arm, thinking for a moment until it latched onto Percy Shelly's mind. Where it seemed, it was quite content to be. The Master grinned as the liquid moved from his arm back to the host, the lighting storm outside quieting and stilling in the night as he messed with the laws of the universe. Reversing the very fabric of time. And of course, if one did this-

"Move away." 

The Master gave a soft chuckle as he felt the hilt of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver pointed at the back of his neck. In his mad fury, the Master hadn't noticed the prostitutes moving away to Lord Byron's side, their faces twisted in a delightful expression of horror. The bravery and courageousness the Master had seen in the sword fight seemed to fade as Lord Byron used the women as a shield so that he might get the short end of whatever was about to happen. He couldn't help making another jab at the Lord.

"Look, Mr. Byron, it's the woman you call The Universe," he snickered. 

"I said move away, now," the Doctor ordered, a sharp edge to her voice. "I don't want to hurt you."

"A pity," the Master sighed, turning to face her. "I want to add your blood to the nice little flow on the staircase. Did you see it on the way in? The fate of our people, used for cheap theater. Course that's all the time lords are really useful for in the end."

"Cheap theater!?" Lord Byron was outraged to be fooled in such a way, but cowered behind the women as the Master stood to face the Doctor.

"I knew you'd escaped Gallifrey," the Doctor said, shuffling her feat almost guiltily. "I went lookin' for ya. What you doin' in 1816 with Lord Byron?"

"When a friend hides for thousands of years, most people would assume they don't want to be found," the Master sighed. "But you aren't most people I suppose. Still, glad you're here to see it. You got here a second too late." 

"What've you done?" the Doctor's voice was deadly quiet, her rage and anger at what the Master had done to her on Gallifrey bursting loose at the seams as she yanked him back from Percy Shelly and threw him against the wall. Delightful. "WHAT'VE YOU DONE!?" 

"Suggested a better host," the Master gave a soft chuckle.

The Doctor turned to Percy Shelly, the lightning storm once more gathering in intensity outside. The poet's face twisted in fear, pain and anger, the cyberium once more fading into his skin. Content with returning to the original body. With a look of utter hatred at the Master, the Doctor took a deep breath before kneeling down in front of Percy Shelly, her hands extending to his temple. The Master could almost feel the shiver that would run through her body at the simple phrase 'contact.' 

"I can' believe you've done this," she rambled nervously. "Ya' claim to love me, to care about me, but Kosch- you created the Cybermasters out of my regeneration energy. That makes you no better than the rest of them, no better than Techteun. Ya' should have left me to die there. Rot away. Maybe you'd be happier then." 

Her words struck the Master in his hearts. She was right. He had used her energy in an experiment, he had taken advantage of her any way he could find. First as O, then in a cruel science lab of his own making. As if he himself were a modern Dr Frankenstein. The Master tilted her head up with his pointer finger as he watched the cyberium flood from Percy's mind once more, just as he had planned. History rewriting itself. The dark shadow of Ashad breaking through the timelines in the hall flickered out as a gust of wind extinguished his candle. He wanted to see her break. He wanted to see the crushing of her soul behind her eyes, just as it had broken him. And here it was- the cyberium flooded her veins, twisting and turning its way up her arm as she gave a tiny exclamation of fear and pain. Her blonde hair askew across her face, she doubled over as she fought to keep the cyberium in her body. And- just to secure his final victory, the Master moved his hands to her shoulders, gently forcing her to her knees. When she dared to look up at him again, he saw the gleam of silver behind her eyes that he had become so acquainted with seeing just out of the corner of his own.

"Look at the ground, darling," the Master's voice was gentle but deadly, the Doctor complying after a brief hesitation. "You do not look me in the eyes without my expressed permission. The blonde there. Swap outfits. I wonder if you'd look as divine as she. Do it or I kill the poet."

The Doctor cast a look of utter hatred up at him, moving across the room to the blonde prostitute. She hated being touched by anyone. Hated the feel of any hands across her that weren't his own. And now, as he reflected on her words, comparing her to Techteun, the mother of nightmares, he wondered if she would trust his touch as much as anyone else. The Master stood tall in the corner of the room, his presence overshadowing everyone else as the Doctor's eyes flashed, the thud of her raincoat on the floor sending a thrill through his body. 

"Do take care to not gaze upon my goddess, Mr. Byron and Mr. Shelly," the Master took care to address them as the mere mortals they were. "You are only human after all." 

And the Doctor stepped back over to the Master, disrobed, disgruntled, disfigured. Shivering from head to foot and dolled up in the most lace and bows he had ever seen. adorn her body. The Master looked her over, gazing with pride upon what he'd done, then shrugged his purple gentleman's coat off and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Now see here, Lord Byron," the Master chuckled. "I grant the Doctor control of my cybermasters. Our course is set- Gallifrey awaits her new queen." 

If the Master bothered to look twice beyond the Doctor's stoic expression, determined not to give him the satisfaction, he would have noticed the flicker of fear behind her eyes, the shaking of her hands. She belonged to him, she always had. To show her place in front of a potential suitor- well, he couldn't have chosen a worse humiliation. And now Lord Byron stood at the foot of the stairs, looking after the woman who'd entranced his fancy and saved his life. Changed forever.

"You've got the year wrong, sir," Lord Byron called. "It is not 1816. The year 1925, and this house is long since abandoned." 

*What the fuck.* The Master paused at the top step, his foot creaking the wood. He turned back to Lord Byron, a short smile crossing the Doctor's face as though she knew all along. Lord Byron and Percy Shelly flickered away in the gust of wind, as though they were never there at all. 

.......


End file.
